MCDOWELL and
his minions had already done over Connie’s office by the time I got back. Elliott’s desk, too. Unsuccessfully, because they were now doing
over mine. At least the minions
were. They were two hard-faced blokes
I’d seen around but didn’t know. Didn’t
want to, either; it’s my experience that
blokes with low foreheads and square-cut fingernails have no imagination and
even less empathy. McDowell was on the
phone, looking startled, then thoughtful, finally angry.
All this was being monitored by our chief, Rob Collinson. Rob was plainly unhappy, but you didn’t
stand in the way of the Command Support Unit if you knew what was good for
you. Elliott must have got the same
message because he stood watching in silent fury, his knuckles white.
“What’s this?” I
enquired. “Have we lost the winning
Tattslotto ticket?”
McDowell fronted me. “Where is it?” he snarled.
“A copy of the tape? You’re wasting your time.”
“The original.”
“It’s missing?” I can play the innocent pretty well, I’ve
been told.
McDowell towered over
me. “Don’t fuck me around, Mason.”
I adopted the right amount of
outraged anger. “The last I saw it, it
was disappearing into the commissioner’s office. If I remember rightly, it was in your
hand.”
“And where were you when we came out
of the office?”
“In the toilet.” I seized the chance to rub it in. “Thank you for waiting.”
He wasn’t diverted. The accusatory stare remained. So did my defensive one - after all, I wasn’t lying. I decided to put him on the back foot.
“Are you accusing me of stealing
evidence?” I turned to Collinson. Elliott and a still-pale Connie had taken up
station alongside him. “Would you mind
taking notes? I think I’m about to get
grounds for defamation.” I turned back
to McDowell and raised the left eyebrow.
He coloured, but more in anger than
embarrassment, I reckoned. And he
didn’t step back.
“Are you telling me you know nothing
about the tape disappearing?” It was a
well-put question. Not an accusation.
“I am.”
I can lie pretty well,
I’ve been told. McDowell blinked, and
some of his hostility evaporated into doubt.
He took a backward step, but only literally.
“Then you won’t mind if
we have a look in your car, will you?”
“Go for you life.” I swung around to Collinson. “Would you mind overseeing, sir?” At the same time, I gave Connie a wink. Whether Collinson recognised its
significance, I couldn’t say. He seemed
more interested in getting under McDowell’s feet.
“It’ll be a
pleasure. Then you and Connie can have
the rest of the day off. It’ll take
that long for these clowns to come back and clean up this mess.”
He should have said
clones. McDowell’s two minions adopted
the same nose-up mien as their boss, then wordlessly took up the rearguard as
we all trooped to the lifts en route to the basement. Their presence prevented me from telling
Connie my little secret, but that could wait.
No hurry.
Which was just as
well. The clones did a good job on my
car, taking their time and missing nothing, even checking inside the ballistic
vest container in the boot. They
double-teamed as Connie and I had done earlier but with one notable difference
– they didn’t find anything. Not even warm.
While they were slaving
away, I resumed my interrupted “Best of Frankie Laine”. It infuriated them, especially “Wild
Goose”. McDowell’s eyes got narrower the
longer the search took. Long before the
minions gave up, I reckon he’d realised there was nothing to be found. He couldn’t stop them in mid-search for fear
of looking like a dickhead, but that didn’t stop the cagey bastard from
thinking. When, finally, the clones had
to admit my car was clean, he went up to Connie.
“Your keys,
please.”
Connie turned appealing
eyes to Collinson, whose patience was transparently thin. He waved his own keys in McDowell’s
face. “Would you like to have a go at
mine while you’re at it?”
McDowell, his demanding
hand in front of Connie, ignored him.
Connie, fumed. For a moment, I
thought she was going to throw the keys at him, but she did better. She dropped them, then stalked off and
perched on the bonnet of my car, where she lit a fag with shaking hands.
As usual, McDowell was
unmoved. He flung the keys to Heckle
and Jeckle, who went to work again, duplicating their first effort. After half an hour, they had to admit they
had also duplicated their first result.
It was the chance for the boss to let off some more steam.
“Happy now?” he yelled at
McDowell. He glared at the
suddenly-not-quite-so-cocksure chief inspector. “Or do you reckon we should take ‘em to the
mail room and X-ray ‘em – make sure one of ‘em hasn’t swallowed the fucking
thing?”
“We’ll go back to the
ninth,” McDowell said softly.
Poker-faced, he turned on his heel and strode for the lifts, Heckle and Jeckle
in tow.
Collinson turned to me
and Connie. “You two nick off before
they think of some other damn fool thing to do. Come and see me tomorrow. Oh nine hundred.” He followed the search party into the lift
and stood with his back to McDowell.
Deliberately I thought.
The moment the door
closed, Connie was at me. “All right,
you devious bastard. What’d you do with
it?”
Her grin was
infectious. I led her to Collinson’s
car. I opened the driver’s door,
actuated the boot release and went to the boot.
“You have keys to this?”
Connie asked.
I merely widened my
grin. You don’t spend two years in the
Stolen Car Squad without picking up a handy skill or two. “I have to admit, when the boss offered his
keys, I thought the jig might be up, especially seeing how thorough those
blokes were.”
I jerked the two
ballistic vests from their container and stripped them from their plastic carry
bag. I unzipped the bottom of one of
them, revealing a pad of ballistic fabric, and one videotape.
I handed it over. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know.” Her brow furrowed. “It’ll need some heavy thought.”
I slammed the boot. “While you’re thinking, put it somewhere
secure. Fast.” I walked her to her car. “Want some company?”
She shook her head. “You’re already too involved. Whatever I do, I don’t want you
compromised.” She put her hand on mine. “But thank you, Mark. Pick me up in the morning?”
It was some touch. Enough to rue having been so virtuous. But then the touch hardened and she was
staring blackly over my shoulder. I
turned, and there was the crew-cut one, Heckle, standing by the lifts and
giving us a beady eye. How long had he
been there? No way of knowing but
possibly long enough to see what he had failed to find.
I pushed Connie into her
car. “Off you go,” I ordered, and the
V6 purred its way on to the down ramp.
The moment it disappeared, I looked back but Heckle had vanished. I got into my own car, buckled up, and
waited. Sure enough, Heckle drove past
a few moments later. I gave him ten
seconds, then followed.
Connie headed east on
High Street, towards her home in Waverley.
She drove sedately, obviously unaware of the tail. That made it easy for Heckle, who
maintained what the Police Manual calls a discreet distance. He was keeping up a running conversation on
his mobile, no doubt cooking up something diabolical with McDowell.
Two could play at that
game.
Connie answered me
cautiously. “Yes?”
“Mark here, Connie. You’re being tailed. One of the Blues Brothers. I’m behind him.”
“Shit!” Connie rarely swore, but when she did… “What’s he driving?”
I told her.
“Got him,” she
confirmed. She was silent a moment,
then, “Can you get between me and him?”
Could I? You don’t spend a couple of years driving in
the Traffic Group without picking up a handy manoeuvre or two. Within a few seconds, I was past Heckle,
past the Datsun 240K in front of him and behind Connie. Almost immediately, the ancient Datsun
pulled in to the kerb, leaving the three of us in line astern. I would have preferred an intervening
vehicle, but Heckle was so engrossed by Connie and whoever was on his mobile
that he failed to ID me. Tough.
Good fortune followed
when an amber light warned Connie to stop at the next intersection. Ever thinking, she kicked the Commodore
down. The machine’s rear squatted a
good six inches at the burst of torque.
The Goodyears shrieked.
The lights turned red
before Connie was half way across.
Safely, thank God, and with no chance of Heckle breaching the heavy
cross traffic. He waited behind me,
champing, and as soon as he got the green, screeched past me, desperate to make
up the thirty seconds he’d lost. He was
still oblivious to me, sitting on his tail.
I called Connie but got no reply.
I soon found out
why. About a click up the street, an
old car yard had lately given way to a group of shops, including a post
office. These were set back from the
street, allowing angle parking for the customers, of whom Connie was one. Heedless of me, Heckle slapped on his
anchors and screeched into the bay alongside Connie’s. I duplicated his manoeuvre, more out of
self-preservation than intention, except that I finished up just six inches
from Heckle’s door, as the bastard discovered when he tried to get out. He leant on his horn and gesticulated in
what I took to be an invitation to rack off.
Then he twigged.
His surprise was profound
but brief. He threw himself at the
passenger door and dashed for the post office, just in time to nearly skittle
the emerging Connie. She showed him
empty hands and a sweet smile. He gave
her a remark that sounded like “Bitch!” and continued his dash into the post
office.
Connie saw me and smiled
again. “Thanks again, Mark. Owe you one more.” She made for her car while I followed
Heckle, just to be on the safe side.
Heckle was flashing the
freddie at the small, balding bloke behind the counter. “That woman,” he snapped. “What’d she post?”
The bloke, startled,
didn’t reply. Heckle leant into his
face.
“I want it.”
“What for?”
“Evidence. To do with a serious crime. Hand it over.”
Heckle had forgotten
everything they taught him at the obligatory customer service course. I saw the little bloke’s hackles rise.
“You got a warrant?”
Heckle blinked. “What?”
“A warrant. You know.
Authorising the interception of mail.”
Heckle could see his
prize escaping. “I can’t wait for a
fucking warrant,” he roared. He waved
his freddie again. “I want that package
right now.”
“Yell all you like,” the
little bloke retorted, “but without a Commonwealth warrant, I don’t hand over
Her Majesty’s mail to anyone, you included.” He stretched his five feet five to perhaps
five feet six and glared up at The Law.
“Now bugger off!”
Heckle knew a dismissal
when he heard one. He stalked for the
door, exchanging his ID for his mobile.
He was still thumbing numbers when he realised that yours truly was
holding the door for him.
“Very diplomatic,” I told
him.
Heckle went to say
something but changed his mind, perhaps remembering that, suspended or not, I
still outranked him. He was almost to
his car before he came up with what he thought was a riposte.
“We’ll get the bloody
thing,” he snarled. “Don’t you worry
about that.”
I didn’t. I merely nodded towards the parking bay
alongside him. “You’d better get on
your bike then.”
He swung around to see an
Oz Post van backing into the kerb.
“It ain’t picking up
Christmas cards,” I told him.
Next morning, I left home
at 0745 to drive out to Connie’s place.
It struck me that it would’ve been a more efficient use of resources if
Connie had simply picked me up on her way in. I said as much when I rang her the previous
evening to report on the failed interception, but she made it clear that
efficiency must always defer to the privileges of rank and you should know
that, Mark, and whatever possessed you to ask?
Good question. I
wisely let it go, instead asking if there’d been any developments since Heckle
had watched in helpless anger as the little Oz Post van disappeared over the
horizon.
Plenty, she’d said. A succession of phone calls beginning with
McDowell and ending with Evans. Both
men had been amicable, then hostile and finally threatening as they realised
she was keeping mum. It ended up with
her being told she could kiss her career goodbye and serious criminal charges
would doubtlessly follow.
I’d had something the
same, except that I’d had only McDowell to deal with. I told him I hadn’t the faintest idea where
Connie had mailed the tape to, and even if I did, he would be the last to
know. His “end of your career” threat
was wasted on me.
“Bluff,” Connie had said,
but in her case, I wasn’t so sure.
“That’s probably what
Jodie Aston said. You be careful.”
“I will,” she’d
said. “See you in the morning.”
She didn’t. When I arrived at 0815, the front door was
ajar and I could hear the growl of an off-the-hook phone over the Dinning
Sisters and “Once in a While”. Alarm
bells rang. I ripped my earphones off.
“Connie?”
I stepped into the little
entrance hall and turned into the sitting room – and found myself looking at a
hideous vertical streak of blood on the opposite wall. Below it, crumpled and still, was my
superior.
“Connie!”
I leapt to her, knelt and felt for a pulse. I don’t know why I did that. Wishful thinking, I suppose. Useless. Connie was staring at nothing in particular, the Irish fire in her eyes extinguished forever.